


Hunger and Need

by QueenLapinova



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Sexual Content, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-14
Updated: 2013-10-14
Packaged: 2017-12-29 10:58:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1004613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenLapinova/pseuds/QueenLapinova
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Seven days and he almost forgot how she tasted: how he ever came to knowing how she tasted, or how she fell into that dark and hungry cavern of want."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hunger and Need

**Author's Note:**

> Filling a prompt left on Tumblr. : ) For the sake of tagging, the surprise element of the story is a bit spoilt, but here's a bit of smut for you.

Jagged silver edges grind and twist into a keyhole and when she enters the shop she’s stamping off the slick polish of Hong Kong rain into welcome mat fibers, folding her umbrella into a bleak spiral; out her darkly parted mouth her breath hitches on a thought. Chilled as a specimen drenched in ammonia, she drips, and despite her best efforts she tracks rain up the stairs.

Seven days and he almost forgot how she tasted: how he ever came to knowing how she tasted, or how she fell into that dark and hungry cavern of want. Hannibal wanted her, he needed her. And for things he wanted, through the fortification of greed, he could muster a patience that hung upon the edge of predatory; manifesting as a line of threatening gold in the dark as she came around the corner, tracking tell tale bread crumbs of water.

Her face is marked by that heavy slit of lashes, widening as she looks up at him when his heavy hand catches her from the dim. Cold has sparked her cheeks into a speckled and spreading blush that cannot rival the bloody flush of his suit; it comes damn near close with the contrast of her pale, her grays, her blacks; she’s a dark line dressed for little deaths. 

They never say anything unless it’s a name exhaled in a breath or if it’s a prayer screamed to God and his son. The rules were never written, they had never been uttered, but they were understood. Hannibal is undressing her in the hallway, slowly reeling her backward into a bedroom. Wet heat radiates from her when he has peeled away the first heavy wool layer and she’s already squirming, he can tell, but she’s a controlled type. She’d never admit it. And underneath her coat she wore a plain cotton shirt. She didn’t wear a bra. And the sweat, the rain water sticking to her skin as he runs his hands up her body from her hips to her hardened nipples, drives him crazy.

Leaning into his touch by the subtle propulsion of her curving spine, his mouth turns up at the edge as her umbrella topples to the floor. When the backs of her knees hit the bed, haphazardly she steps on the sleeve of her coat.

He can’t contain his want. Hannibal’s scratching her face in a kiss on the forehead, a heavy kiss on her lips, pawing at her from underneath her clothing. She’s warm all over, her abdomen pressing again into him as she kisses him back. Heat fills the divide between their bodies and he pinches cotton between his hands and pulls her shirt above her head.

Hannibal shoves her those two feet down onto the bed bouncing down upon her coccyx. He knows she’s not fragile, she knows if he wanted to hurt her he would have done it already, and a space between her legs begins to appear. The floor’s as hard as he’s growing and his hands having found their place on her thighs, he’s filling the divide with breath; breathing on the crotch of her pants, running his hands firmly around the fabric of her inner thigh.

Her breaths are anticipatory and wanting and he’s never been hungrier. He nudges the outside of her pants with his nose, pressing her to his face. She’s tensing, already as wet as the rain and he can feel it when he presses his tongue to the fabric and licks hot and wet at her pussy. There’s no sound. She’s holding her breath and through the crook of her arm he can see she has braced herself, grabbing at the sheets in a choke hold.

Hannibal’s unbuttoning her pants, unzipping them in a toothed copper pull, and the way her hips press upward as she leans upon her elbows makes decoding her easy: makes gathering her pants around her ankles, slipping the knots of black jump boots, into fuel spurring the fire he wanted to spark on her thighs, on her breasts, mouth, and her wet clit. Her panties are moved down her feet and thrown aside.

When she’s bare she leans back onto the bed, Hannibal’s presence reaching her like a wave, his mouth finally upon her first as a murmur of hot air, second as a tongue leaning into her open and wet. Licking, sucking upon her. Her body vibrated around his mouth in nerves that were tensing around the tongue that pressed deeper into her, into the fingers, one, then two, wet, he inserted when slicked in her fluids. She moans heat into the air, quiet, her cheeks turning the red of intoxication. With his fingers he’s beckoning, thickly moving in and out of her cunt; window light clings to her wetness and he sucks it away, tasting her as he had a week ago with his face buried between her legs, scratching her inner thigh with sharp facial hair.

Her breathing is sharp, unplanned. She’s breaking the rules by trying to say she doesn’t have much time today, that she’s needed back at the Shatterdome in an hour. He tells her to shut up. Left as an incomplete sentence she cleaves it in half with a loud moan. Her legs wrap around Hannibal’s head and she comes hot and wet on Hannibal’s open mouth. She’s salt, she’s sea, and for a moment she released control and became a plucked string vibrating with noise.

Her body catches up with her breathing, her brain chases after her thoughts and she lay in his sheets smiling. Mouth open, her bent knees and curled toes relinquish their grip on Hannibal’s head: her body is a post orgasmic hum.

He licks his lips. That’s what she tastes like. The ghost of her is resurrected on his tongue in cum and she leaves him as she does every time. Without a word. That’s the nature of their agreement.

Mako Mori’s underwear’s taking up the space in his breast pocket.


End file.
